Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I knew he enjoyed it the moment he slammed inside and then gripped my hip with a long pause of his own.
As much as he wanted it, he still had to rush to the shower, probably unable to stand the feel of me on his skin.
I curl up on the floor, naked and used, and in utter fucking bliss.
I’m too fucked out to care if the floor is dirty, too satiated to worry about his cum inside of me. I want it there as much as I want my stomach to swell with his baby. I was on birth control the first time he fucked me without a condom, but I stopped taking it the very next day. My reasoning was that if he came back, and we ended up this way again, maybe he’d leave something behind.
Getting pregnant because I’m desperate for someone to love me is fucked up beyond words, but there aren’t many things I do these days that make sense.
My eyelashes rest on my cheeks as I take a deep breath. I don’t know if it’s possible the drugs are still in my system or what, but I’m insanely exhausted, and sleeping right here seems like the perfect place.
I jerk at the sound of his voice, knowing I must’ve drifted off.
“I said get up and get yourself cleaned up,” he growls, the familiar annoyance in his tone.
It makes me want to bite the man. Commanding me when he’s about to fuck me is one thing. Thinking he has any right to control me before or after is a mistake on his part.
Anger bubbles inside of me, making it easier to hold the weight of my body this time as I stand.
He’s naked, dripping fucking wet, and the way my eyes drop to his heavy cock makes me hate myself a little.
I step up close to him, resisting the urge to bury my nose in his chest.
“Fuck. Off.”
I don’t know that I’d call it amusement, but the words spark something different than anger in his eyes.
I shove past him and head into the bathroom. The man shouldn’t fuck me if he’s only going to regret it after. I refuse to think about how it makes me feel because focusing on his regret will only make me feel it too. I’m tired of feeling unworthy, of being good enough to be used for an orgasm, only to be shoved away.
I know what it means. He stays away longer after he fucks me. I step into the shower, letting the tears that fall mix with the water as I clean him from my skin.
When I finish and head into the bedroom to find the towel I used earlier, I find it empty.
In a moment of juvenile immaturity, I unzip the bag in the bottom of the closet. If I’m good enough to fuck, then he can damn well let me borrow something to wear. The stench of the diner stays in my clothes no matter if they’re washed or not, but I’ll be damned if I’m putting dirty clothes on.
I pull a t-shirt out, pulling the softness to my face before reaching in again. I find nothing but boxer briefs and jeans. When I try the boxers on, not even rolling the waistline will keep them on my slim hips, so the t-shirt will have to do.
I zip the bag up, wondering just how pissed he’s going to be that I didn’t take the time to fold his clothes back up, but I figure it serves him right. If he’d put his shit in the dresser, instead of being packed up like he’s ready to bolt in a moment’s notice, then I wouldn’t have had to make such a fucking mess.
I leave the room on bare feet, a hint of arousal threatening at the way his shirt feels brushing my hips as I walk.
The house isn’t that big, but searching all but the room with the dead body in it, I don’t find him.
I chew on my thumbnail, at the mouth of the hallway, wondering how I’ll feel when I open that door again. I don’t feel bad for the guy who died in there last night, but a sense of apprehension at seeing him dead again hits me.
I know he won’t look much different than he did the second his heart stopped beating, but it just feels like it should be different.
Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the door, hesitating once again as I reach for the knob. When I push the door open, I find it empty.
The body is gone and Donavan isn’t in here either.
Leaving the door open, I walk to the window. There are no cars in the driveway nor parked on the street. Worry settles inside of me. What if he sets me up? What if he calls the police and I have to explain why there’s a huge puddle of blood on the floor?